Home of the Gods

 They say that the clouds are the home of the Gods.
On high they sit,
Unreachable. Unknowable.
Feasting about their hearth,
Watching.
From their thrones, they direct the winds and the storms
And the clouds.

They say that the mountains are a bridge to the sky.
The highest peaks brush softly
Against the heavens' base.
For mountains sometimes touch the clouds
And those who choose to climb them see for a moment
The world from above.
But always, we must return to the Earth and be mortal again
And forget.

Yet here, the Gods are not nearly so unreachable
And some days they seem almost knowable
For here, the clouds descend
And rest upon the earth.
Here, the gods walk among us.

A man in a yellow rain hat walks the trails
With a dog running beside him.
Both are simply happy to be outside in the fog and the rain,
Always ready with a joke and a smile.
Unless he is the raven,
Dancing on a gust of wind above the trees.

A woman expertly steers her boat
Fishing and crabbing as she darts across the mist-covered waves.
She moves quickly, precisely,
Taking enough to feed her neighbors, but no more.
Unless she is the gull,
Wings outstretched as she cuts through the wind.

A hunched figure sits at the end of the bar,
Their face obscured but somehow strong. Old. Wise.
This god is unaffected by the world around them,
Content simply to exist.
Unless they are the eagle,
Hardly noticing the wind as they continue on their way.

They say that the clouds are the home of the gods.
From their thrones they watch us move through life,
Only rarely reaching down to shape the world below.
Perhaps they used to interfere more often.
That is not for me to say.
But some days, they still visit.

They say that the clouds are the home of the gods.
What, then, is a foggy day?

 About this poem

This poem was first published on my creative website in 2019, after a few attempts to put the idea on the page. I wrote it while living in Juneau, Alaska.